


By Any Other Name

by ChangeableConsistency



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Crime, Inept use of French, M/M, Past Lives, Prostitution, Slavery, Squirrel Girl is Always Awesome, Too many characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/ChangeableConsistency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have been everything to each other. Father, mother; sister, brother. Sometimes lovers and always adversaries. Through the centuries one thing is constant, whether they meet over hearth or battlefield. They are forever connected, twin souls throughout time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [X-men Reverse Bang](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/9936) by pariahsdream. 



> "So as through a glass and darkly, the age long strife I see,  
> Where I fought in many guises, many names, but always me."  
> —General George S. Patton

**1962 CE - Miami Coast  
  
** "Stop. Stop. There is someone else out there," Charles points out over the water as the yacht's anchor chain rises out of the water. The other telepath, her mind sharp and cold, is focused on shielding Shaw and the rest of his crew; either not knowing or not caring about the man in the water.  
  
The chain rips through the Caspartina, shredding it like paper. At first he can’t tell if anyone but the telepath has survived, she’s still shielding the ruined yacht; but then the icy sharpness ebbs from his mind and he can sense at least two other survivors as she concentrates on... Dear God, on preparing a nuclear submarine to dive.  
  
Her distraction lets him touch the mind of the man in the water and he gasps in shock. He knows him, his mind is as familiar as Raven's, as his own. He sinks into the memories as Erik sinks into the cold Atlantic waters.

 

+++ ****

**1958 CE - Vinnitsa  
**  
As a boy, Max clung to his parents, trusting in them as they changed names and locations; losing friends and loved ones to the Reich's madness, but never losing their faith. He has not been that boy for a very long time.  
  
For a while Magnus had thought he had grown past the terror he had felt, had become, in the camps under Schmidt's tutelage. He had found someone that made him feel something he dared called hope. If not for her, he would have stayed chained to his creator.  
  
Magda's gentle strength was the reason he was able to break free from the Doktor's hold. He planned their escape for her; it was her grace that helped him heal, their daughter's smile that made him more man than monster.  
  
And then there was the fire. Anya's death. And somehow worst of all Magda's expression, her tears cutting through soot as she named him, his true self, Monster. Herr Doktor's darkest creation.  
  
With his family once again nothing but ash on his tongue he embraced the darkness and dedicated himself to destroying those who had created him.  
  
This is what Erik knows about himself. About who and what he is.

Charles knows Erik is so much more.

 

+++

 

He's diving, deeper, and deeper; the pressure of so much time weighing him down.

 

+++ ****

**200-135 BCE- China  
**  
Outside the tent, the Han camp is loud enough that the Xiongnu warriors, their own camp several miles away, must be able to hear them. The relative quiet of the bridal tent is peaceful in comparison.  
  
Charles looks around silently before approaching the wéiqí mat, black and white stones arranged exactly as they had been the night before but for a single move.  
  
He studies his options before carefully setting down his next stone, pointedly ignoring the broken tip of a whistling arrow brazenly set in the middle of an embroidered pillow.

 

+++

 

No! Wait! Charles struggles against the drag of time's current; isn’t the weight of the memories crushing him, it's the water as it presses down around Erik.  He has to stop this, has to save him, to save them. He can't lose Erik again.

 

+++ ****

**67 CE- Imperial Rome**  
  
The crowd roared as he made his way to where Agent McTaggart sat. He dared not turn his head, knowing how the battle below would catch eye and hold him captive.  
  
Erik, scarred and bloody, nothing but parma and gladius between him and what had been near certain death only moments before.  
  
Erik was headlining ever more deadly challenges and his continued winning streak had begun to bore the Editor. Today was the first time in a month that the odds weren't in the gladiator's favor. Charles scowled, not many men would last stripped and weaponless against two trained milites, much less two sent to the arena for execution or redemption, the unarmed champion the only thing standing between them and salvation.  
  
He took a seat in the shaded pavilion as one of Moira's attendants offered him a goblet of wine.  
  
"So. It looks like your boy will live to fight another day," Moria said, lips twisted in what even the most charitable would hesitate to call smile.  
  
Charles' frown deepened and despite himself he looked down into the dusty red arena, "He  isn't mine, Lucius."  
  
They both let the 'yet' remain unspoken.  
  
Erik was sweating, blood dripped from his arm beneath the shield, small cuts and abrasions littered his lean, muscular, frame. The whip marks on his back had reopened and were caked with sand.  
  
Charles couldn't imagine the pain that the barbarian must have felt, though Erik didn't even bother to shrug off, as though the pain was as much a part of him as his arm, or his pride. His bloodied teeth flashed in a shark-toothed grin of triumph as he watched his second opponent's life drain away.  
  
Had Charles thought the crowd roared before, when Erik had disarmed one of the soldiers and swiftly cut him down with his own blade? That had been a pale precursor to what swelled the risers now. The chants of "Leonidas! Leonidas!" were near deafening.  
  
Erik stood above his two fallen foes, breathing heavily as he looked up and scanned the arena. A snarl marred his face as the  came out to surrounded him. He threw off the shield and tossed the sword aside in disdain.  Experience had taught him to place his hands grudgingly in front of him. The gash on his arm dripped into the stained clay sand.  Better the indignity of going back to his cell in chains than the humiliation of being whipped into submission and dragged out unconscious.  
  
He remained standing; proudly refusing to bend his back, head unbowed, ignoring the shaking hands of the man encasing his wrists in the heavy iron manacles. As the man stepped away, Erik glanced around at the crowd before dismissing them all with the look of a sovereign tired of his supplicants. He exited the arena, his posture not that of a naked slave at spear point, but of a conqueror, as though the cheering crowd were his to command, the soldiers surrounding him an honor guard.

 

++

 

Charles knelt over the wounded novicius, knowing there was nothing more he could do than listen to the boy as he whispered his name. Charles would ensure a proper funeral and that his meager trophies would get delivered to his family, with a little something extra from Charles' own coffers.  
  
He stood, looking for the physician; had he been watching, the small wound might have been caught sooner and the boy's life spared.  
  
Charles brow furrowed. Not that death, even as painful as the one the boy was suffering wasn't in some ways preferable to the duties expected of the Editor's slaves, gladiator or otherwise.  
  
Charles’ petitions had once again stalled and he was waiting for the right timing to bribe his way back up the rolls. Each week the games became more outrageous, the banquets more lavish, and, according to the rumors, the pleasures available in the Editor's stables more debauched. The man was at least half mad and had to be stopped.  
  
While Charles waited, he visited the various ludi. Most were run by moral men of sound judgment, willing to listen to reason. Some, like Moira, not only supported his proposed reforms, they had helped write them. He much preferred discussing politics over wine-soaked figs to promising dying children they would be mourned properly.  
  
Charles stopped suddenly as he rounded the corner, his breath catching in his throat.  
  
Erik lay on a high table, an unctor rubbing fragrant oil into his shoulders. The marks on his back more than half mended; if the stubborn beast could just manage his temper they might even heal completely.  
  
The masseur moved his hands carefully down the warrior's back, pressing harder as he reached the relatively unmarked dip above Erik's scarred buttocks; the well-defined muscles below the small of his back carrying scars from much earlier, likely harsher, beatings.  
  
Erik's pleased moan startled an answering sigh from Charles, the soft gasp escaping his lips against his will. Charles tensed, expecting outrage or indignation. Erik didn't even lift his head as he dismissed the man, "Thank you, Caelinus. That will be all."  
  
"If you're sure?" Charles’ vision blurred as Caelinus wavered before him; at first tall and dark skinned, a hidden smile in his eyes dampened by his suspicion of Charles, and then slightly shorter, pale, and full of barely leashed energy, ready to lash out at any provocation.  
  
Erik's moved with fluid grace, rising from pliantly resting on his stomach to sitting on the edge of the table. He clasped a hand on the masseur's shoulder, "Go. There are others with far more need of your presence than I."  
  
As Caelinus left, both entwined souls bearing a look of resigned concern; Charles’ had already forgotten them, captivated by Erik's gaze as it travelled with insolent slowness down his body from head to toe;  lingering on his eyes, his throat, the swell of one pale thigh peeking out from the folds of his finely woven toga.  
  
"Dominus." The sneer never touched his face; for all that it was layered in those few syllables.  
  
Charles had to catch himself from rebuking Erik, knowing it would at best change nothing. As popular as he was in the arena, Erik was still a slave and he had to know his popularity didn't offer enough protection to allow him such license. Charles knew such insolence towards the Editor had cost lesser slaves their lives.  
  
Charles realized he been doing his own fair share of staring and had yet to say a word. Unfortunately this led him to say the first thing on his lips.  
  
"How is it you still have your tongue?" It could have been meant as a set down but for the awed curiosity in his tone.  
  
Erik smiled lasciviously.  
  
"Well, now," he said, as he lowered his long legs to the ground, shoulders and arms flexing, "Isn't that what you're here to find out, Dominus?"  
  
Erik prowled towards him, glistening and sweetly scented from the mixture of oils coating his skin. Charles’ heart sped and he licked his lips.  
  
He was here to warn the blasted man, not indulge in one of his more frequent fantasies. Countless times he had played it through his mind: whisking Erik away to the safety of his summer villa, sequestered away from spying eyes Erik would be grateful, in his own proud way, and offer himself much as he was now.  
  
But this was nothing like his favorite daydream. This wasn't an offer of gratitude. This was practiced. Studied. As if from a memorized script. And the look in Erik's eyes wasn't lust, it was contempt.  
  
Even so Charles couldn't resist as the scarred veteran pulled him close, capturing his lips in a kiss, moaning as Erik's tongue boldly licked into his mouth. Erik's body, loose and warm from the massage leaned into him. Overcome, Charles backed Erik into the table, returning the kiss with all the pent up fear and anger that had been driving him the past few days; ever since his spy in the Editor's home had provided him with a crude copy of the libellus for the next spectacle and a chilling report of what the pamphlet didn't say.  
  
The Editor, displeased with watching Erik casually rip through everything thrown at him, and infuriated by Erik's inability to be broken, had decided the champion's next match was to his last. One way or another. Erik's status meant the bitter magistrate would have to deal with more backlash than he'd like if he were to throw Erik to the lions. Not only that, there was too much risk of the gods' favor holding and Erik triumphing over the great cats; he was at least as savage as they were. There was even the fear that the beasts might bow down to the great Leonidas.  
  
Erik's next opponents would have poisoned weapons so deadly that even the barest of scratches would bring death. That was frightening enough, much worse were the pamphlets to be prepared if he emerged unscathed; for even if he survived, the Editor had arranged for Erik to be poisoned that night and his death attributed to an imperceptible scratch, undetected until the following morning.  
  
Charles broke the kiss, swearing in frustration, wishing the damned table wasn't so inconveniently tall, before recalling his purpose and where they were.  
  
"Not here. Somewhere private," Charles panted, letting Erik think what he wanted. He would get Erik somewhere safer than an open room anyone could walk into and then let him know why he was really here.  
  
Erik raised his eyebrow. Most of the nobles who wanted a bit of privacy had him sent to their own residences. Those who took him at the ludi typically wanted an audience, thinking to display their own prowess in bringing him to his knees.  
  
Erik stepped away, a living marble god, seemingly unmoved by the passionate embrace they had just shared.  
  
"This way," he ordered, pulling a loose shift over his head, not bothering to belt it.  
  
Several turns through the maze of corridors had them arriving at a narrow door. Erik easily lifted the heavy bar and set it aside before opening the door with a flourish and stepping inside, beckoning Charles to follow.  
  
Erik shut the door behind them and gathered the hem of his loose garment as he took a couple steps to the bed which nearly filled small room.  
  
"Wait!" Charles came up behind Erik, grabbing his wrists and stilling his hands.  
  
"My apologies, Dominus," the contempt lurking in the shadows of his voice coming into full bloom as he continued, the sinews in his wrists tightening has he clenched his fists, "How may I please you."  
  
"You can listen." Charles felt burned by the heat of Erik's shoulder beneath his cheek, but he couldn't resist taking this small touch for himself. He wanted take so much more. He could, he was well within his rights and Erik would let him; denying Charles the service of his body wasn't worth his life, for losing that would cost him his revenge against the Editor. Charles knew this, knew that's what motivated Erik to keep fighting, keep pushing, while never quite crossing the line.  
  
Charles sighed, his lips brushing against Erik's neck. "I'm going to get you out of here."  
  
Erik laughed, low and harsh as he tilted his head towards the chains the spilled from the wall to the sheets, "You'd rather I was bound in silk rather than iron?"  
  
Charles felt his self-control weaken at the image of Erik spread willingly on his bed, blood red- no, royal purple silk pulling his arms and legs wide. He licked a drop of the sweet oil from Erik's neck, "Wouldn't that be preferable?"  
  
"I'd rather not be chained at all!" he snarled and the sound traveled through Charles like lava, heating him even further and he felt himself growing hard against the rounded swell of Erik's tautly muscled buttocks.  
  
He slipped one hand up Erik's arm to his throat, before biting down at the scarred join of Erik's neck and shoulder, his golden skin bared by the loose tunic. Erik trembled in his hold, either from lust or rage but in that moment Charles didn't care, he just wanted to claim the other man. Mark him. Tame him. He wanted take all that barely leashed emotion and swallow it like the finest wine. He wanted to bathe in the heat rising between them.  
  
He turned Erik slowly with the pressure of his thumb against his tightly clenched jaw, twisting him around until they were face to face. Charles hands grasped Erik's hair as he brought him in for a punishingly slow kiss. There was a fire in Erik's eyes bordering on madness and Charles tugged on his lip with his teeth as he pulled Erik's head, forcing him backwards onto the bed.  
  
Charles straddled Erik's thigh, pressing his swollen cock against lean muscle beneath the soft layers of his toga, feeling an answering rise in Erik, long and thick against his uncovered knee.  
  
"Open for me," he commanded, his blood singing at the response he was pulling, however grudgingly, out of Erik.  
  
Erik's nose flared and he growled through his teeth as his hands grasped Charles hips maneuvered him until their erections aligned and he began thrusting up against Charles, resentful of the finely woven fabric keeping them apart, pulling at the heavy belt around Charles waist.  
  
Charles pulled back; pressing his hand on Erik's chest, exposed by the tunic rucked up to his armpits in his fall to the bed. Erik dropped his hands to his sides fisting them in the coarse sheets as he stilled.  
  
Charles leaned over him and cupped his jaw, shaved smooth this morning and already rough with stubble, catching at the soft skin of Charles' thumb as he dragged it to Erik's lower lip, flushed dark in the dim sunlight filtering in from the small window set near the ceiling.  
  
"Open."  
  
Erik's jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he didn't break his teeth, defiance every line of his body as he deliberately turned his head away.  
  
Charles sighed, his hands going to his belt. Erik closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. He knew he could only push his resistance so far. Other nobles had been far less gentle than Charles in taking what they wanted.  
  
He was startled by the sudden loss of Charles weight.  
  
"I'm so sorry; this wasn't my intention..." Charles clear his throat, "I didn't come here to force..."  
  
Erik sat up, the tunic failing to cover his still erect cock as it fell to his waist. His words dripped with venom, "Were you hoping a willing victim? So sorry to disappoint you, Dominus."  
  
"No, I..." He trailed off awkwardly before trying again, "I really did come here to free you."

 

++

 

"This way," Charles motioned Erik to follow him as they hurried down an unfamiliar corridor. "Just a few more turns. I have a cart waiting, and papers that should get you out the gates. The driver has been instructed to take you to my summer villa on the coast. Once there you can rest from the journey for as long as you need."  
  
Charles opened the door and froze. Schmidt smiled as guards fanned out behind him.  
  
Charles mind raced, "Editor, what a pleasant surprise. Perhaps you can help me? I seem to have gotten lost on my way to your guest rooms?"  
  
Then he noticed the blood filling the cobblestones; his driver limp against a cart wheel.  
  
"Now, Cato, you know how generous I am with my things," Schmidt smirked, "I would have loaned him to you. All you had to do was ask. I'm hurt."  
  
Before Charles could respond, Erik had him by the hair, yanking him backwards and putting his sword to Charles' throat, "Let me pass or I'll kill him, and then you and your guards."  
  
"You don't honestly think you'll survive this? Surrender and I promise you a quick death here and now," Schmidt lied. No one there doubted for a moment that Erik's death would be anything but slow if Schmidt had his way.  
  
Erik was shifting them around, the Editor's guards appeared to be unwilling to risk Erik's hostage as he gained ground towards the cart. Charles was trying to figure out the best way for both of them to get in the cart when he noticed Schmidt's chilling smile.  
  
Charles made a startled sound, looking down and grasped at the arrow's point where it emerged from his chest. He looked over his shoulder and for the first time saw defeat in the gladiator's eyes. They were pinned together, a single arrow through both their hearts.  
  
Erik dropped his sword, his arms wrapping around Charles as they fell.

 

+++

 

"Let go! You have to let it go!" Charles shouts across the water.  
  
He means so much more than the sub pulling Erik to a watery grave.  
  
Charles cries out to the others, "There is someone in the water, you have to help him!"

 

+++ ****

**1792 CE- Paris  
**  
Erik smiled, barely keeping it from a sneer. Charles was well familiar with the look from the Frenchman, in fact it was something he took great delight in provoking. He looked down at his cards with a lazy grin.  
  
"Why not?" he shrugged, boredom lacing his impeccable French as he threw in the last of his chips. He knew Erik wasn't bluffing, but his own cards were good enough he wouldn't be accused of throwing the game.  
  
As they revealed their hands he laughed; the one that grated on the last nerve of everyone he'd ever met, and Erik was no exception.  
  
"Congratulations, St. Just."  
  
"You've just lost a small fortune to me, Sir Percy," there was a strained emphasis on the 'Sir', "what about that do you find amusing?"  
  
"It's only money," Charles said with an insouciant shrug.  
  
He hoped Erik would use the funds towards getting his sister out of Paris and not funnel it to the Republic, but it was out of his hands now. Marguerite was the darling of Paris and London alike, with her charm, sharp wit, and the startling amount he'd deftly lost to Erik, they should have no problem bribing their way out of the city and making it to Calais. Charles had gone out of his way to ensure there would always be a ship in port bound for Dover, crewed by men with lips sealed equally by coin and loyalty.  
  
He patted the various pockets of his exaggerated "Incroyable" ensemble, his hands almost femininely white as they emerged through billowy frills of finest Mechline lace. The extravagantly short-waisted satin coat, wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting striped breeches, set off his figure to perfection but his foppish mannerisms were as irritating as the laugh he once again employed, the full performance drawing attention away from his broad shoulders, strong jaw and full lips.  
  
He kept his eyes half lidded and his smile weak as he heaved a sigh. "It appears I am done for the evening. Perhaps I will see if I can find a pretty fille to console me on the way to the poorhouse."  
  
He slouched off to the bordello's main room with a half-hearted, "Gentlemen."

 

++

 

Moments later he was upstairs with a stunning redhead, her fingers nimbly helping him remove each layer.  
  
"Thank you, Cerise, these buttons are a demmed nuisance and I'm running behind as it is."  
  
Born the bastard child of a whore and a nobleman, Cerise had more reason to hate the aristocracy than most; and yet she was one of the few he trusted with his true identity. He had yet to meet anyone more compassionate or dedicated to his cause and he thanked God every day for allowing their paths to cross.  
  
In short order he was dressed again, this time in subdued shades of brown, the patterns muted and subtle. Before he pulled on his gloves he asked her, "Do you need help, my dear?"  
  
She smiled and pulled at the ribbon at her neck. The fitted bodice with its brightly embroidered phoenix fell forward and the sumptuous layers of orange and red lace that shimmered behind her like fire when she walked rippled around her thighs.  
  
"I've got this. I'll keep 'Sir Percy' entertained until morning. You need to get to your meeting, it wouldn't do for the Scarlet Pimpernel to be late."  
  
Charles finished pulling on his gloves and set a small purse on her nightstand, "This should cover the night and any expenses you have for the next couple of weeks. Get word to me if you need more. If all goes as planned, I won't be seeing you for a while."  
  
He kissed her cheek and headed for the window, his blue eyes sparkling behind his mask as he pulled his hat down low.

 

++

 

Erik was tired and frustrated. He had been chasing rumors of the Scarlet Pimpernel all night, but trail had gone cold shortly after his final game with that fool Blakeney. He had one last alley to check and then he would have no choice but to give up for the night.  
  
He shouldn't have stayed at the table as late as he had, but the English lord had been ripe for fleecing and Erik couldn't pass up the chance to take every denier he could from the fop. He hated the English nobility only slightly less than the French.  
  
He had vowed to make every French noble pay for what they had done to his country. He only hoped his disdain for 'Sir' Percy hadn't cost him his chance at his true quarry, the Scarlet Pimpernel.  
  
He turned over the calling card he had picked up in the bordello's game room. He had found it shortly after the oaf had left to find a whore, and Cerise had left readily enough that Erik regretted he hadn't tempted the inane Englishman to a few more hands. It would have pleased him to no end to have completely emptied Blakeney's pockets and save the poor girl from his no doubt inept fumbling.  
  
He turned the card over again; blank on one side, the other was printed with, "Rue Ste. Honoré" and in the corner a small red flower. He had been up and down the street for the last hour and it appeared that his luck had left with Blakeney.  
  
Or perhaps not, he thought as he crushed the card in his right hand and pulled his pistol with his left, cocking it as he ordered, "Turn around, Citoyen. Slowly."  
  
Charles carefully raised his hands. The meeting had gone well and in a few minutes the Duc would be safely out the other side of the building. A thick fog was rolling in and if he could keep the man behind him occupied long enough there was no chance of the Duc getting caught, and he, his Duchesse and their children would be safely out of Paris before daybreak.  
  
"I'm sorry, my French is terrible. Could you repeat that?" Charles asked in English. He twisted his wrist slightly letting his right sleeve drop, hoping he wouldn't have to shoot the poor man unlucky enough to rob him. "Something about turning? Or not turning? I do hope you won't shoot me. I'm afraid I haven't much money on me. Umm, je n'ai pas... oh, bloody hell, what's the word for money?"  
  
Erik sighed as he switched to English. "I do not want your money, Citoyen. I want you to turn around. Slowly."  
  
Damn and double damn. He thought recognized that voice. He had been planning on taking his mask off and pretending to be overwhelmed by Paris's charms and lost in her streets, but he couldn't very well do that now. At least there was no way Erik would connect him to Sir Percy.  
  
"If you're out for murder you'll just have to shoot me in the back then," he knew full well Erik wasn't a murderer; for all the names he had turned over to the Committee, he wasn't going to shoot anyone in the back. Though he wasn't so sure Erik wouldn't shoot him face to face as soon as he confirmed Charles was the Scarlet Pimpernel.  
  
"Merde. I am not an assassin, but I will shoot if you do not turn around."  
  
Charles turned slowly to his left, twitching his sleeve back over the small pistol at his wrist, keeping it in reserve for now. He smiled mischievously, something Sir Percy would never do.  
  
"Morbleu!"  
  
Charles watched Erik closely as he turned, knowing that he might only have a second to shoot first.  
  
"In the name of the Comité de Salut Public, I am placing you under arrest."  
  
Thank God. Not that he didn't need to get out of this; a meeting with Madam Guillotine would put a serious crimp in his long term plans.  
  
"I really rather you wouldn't." Charles took a couple steps closer.  
  
"You, fiend, are an enemy of France."  
  
"I am a champion of liberty. Your Committee is tearing France apart and destroying her people."  
  
"The Committee fights for France. Too long the royal swine have kept the common man from his true glory. We fight to restore her honor. Liberté, égalité, fraternité!"  
  
"Liberty. Equality. Fraternity. How can you support a brotherhood of men and watch her people die for the crime of being born noble?" Charles continued passionately, "Is France to build her future on the bodies of her women and children?"  
  
Erik swallowed. They had been moving closer and closer, each forgetting about their weapons in as they became more caught up in their arguments. They were inches apart,  there was no hiding how deeply Charles last volley struck.  
  
"No." Erik whispered.  
  
"I believe in France, my friend. And I believe you can help her achieve the greatness we both see in her destiny.

 

+++

 

He has to do something; he refuses to let them come so close together only to be ripped apart again.  
  
He isn't thinking anymore, he's just running. He has to stop this, stop Erik, before it’s too late. He strips off his coat and dives.  
  
The shock of the cold Atlantic water is nothing compared to what he feels as his mind plunges deeper into Erik's, the connection is more bracing than the icy darkness that surrounded them; the warmth in his arms echoing that which fills him as he falls through time more inexplicably than he did the air.

 

+++ ****

**1837 CE- London  
  
** The sound of the pistol cocking is alarmingly loud in the alley. He should have known better. He does know better, he ruefully tells himself. The pitiful crying at the back of the alley stopped abruptly as he turned to face a young man calmly pointing the weapon at his heart.  
  
"May I help you?" he asked, calmly watching the unusual red eyes assessing him with mocking disdain.  
  
"Your valuables, S’il vous plaît."  
  
A green child in worn coveralls darted out of his hiding place behind Charles to stand beside his armed partner. Charles had barely felt the contents of his pocket disappear. The boy was good -very good, but his ward was better and had spent years teaching him the finer points of the light-finger trade. ("If you insist in walking through that neighborhood, darling, I insist you know what to look for or you'll beggar us both.")  
  
"Your friend has already helped himself to my wallet," Charles said smiling politely, "but I do believe there is more I can offer."  
  
"Mais bien sûr. Hand over your jewelry. Your watch. Everything, Monsieur."  
  
"That isn't precisely what I meant," he sighed as he removed the cheap gold rings he had worn for this outing, "My school is nearby, with clean beds and warm food. Please, let me help you?"  
  
Alice lectured him every time he went out looking for another stray to bring home, but he really couldn't help himself. These were the same streets he had found her living (if you could call it that) on her skills, wit, and, most of all, a complete disregard for anything but her own survival.  
  
She was going be furious at him for bringing home two more students without consulting her first. Ever since he put her in charge of the day to day management of the orphanage she'd been insistent that she be included on his 'little rescue missions'.  
  
Not that either of them looked eager to follow him home. Not today. But the younger one's pale eyes were wide with longing. The Frenchman motioned his partner forward to take the trinkets from Charles.  
  
"Merci, but I think we can do without your bed," he smirked as both of them began slowly backing out of the alley.  
  
"Not my bed. Beds. Plural. Your own."  
  
He continued, a little desperately as they disappeared into the thickening fog, "I have an excellent chef?"  
  
At least they would have a decent day's take to bring to the new Shadow King. Isaac Solomon had recently replaced Ali's former master in what her sources claimed to be a spectacularly violent fashion; he was rumored to be a fair, if stern, kidsman.  
  
The White Queen may have retired from the game, but she certainly wasn't going to give up any potential advantage. They had both benefited from the network of thugs, thieves and hustlers she maintained.  
  
Charles debated trying to follow them, but without anything of value to steal and night falling he was safer continuing home and trying again later. If he was lucky he could avoid Ali and the inevitable lecture until morning.

 

++

 

The pounding hangover the next morning and the ache in his jaw were bold reminders of just how lucky he wasn't.  
  
It was difficult to think; he tried to determine what hurt most, the vicious slap she greeted him with before pulling him into his study; her icy stare and sharp words as she tore him down again and again, as though he were a willfully disobedient student; or the aftermath from the bottle of cognac he hid in after she left him to think about what he hope to achieve running off half-cocked with no plan, endangering her, the school, and most importantly their children.  
  
Sometimes it was all too easy to forget that he was her guardian and not the other way around.  
  
"Good Morning, Sir," a cheerful voice rang out.  
  
"Oh God," he whimpered. Alice wasn't trying to punish him, she was trying to kill him.  
  
Dora was a darling girl, but her relentless optimism and endless chattering were more than he could handle at the moment. He peeked his head out if his covers, hoping he had been mistaken, but no, there was Dora, setting up a breakfast tray.  
  
She smiled and clapped her hands, "Oh, good! You're awake! Victor did the cutest thing this morning to try and get Susan's attention, but you know Susan, she only has eyes for Reed..."  
  
On and on she went, Charles wasn't sure how she didn't pass out from lack of air. If her endless stream of consciousness had been about her fellow students, instead of the garden squirrels, Charles would try to pay attention; as it was he was trying to decide if he was better off trying to sit up and have a bit of toast, or burying himself under his covers in the hope that Dora would assume he fell back asleep and leave.  
  
"And then Susan disappeared like she does every time Reed and Victor start fighting," he whimpered again and he pulled the pillow over his head. The toast could wait.  
  
Several hours of sleep and a fresh bath later had him feeling mostly human. He was sitting behind his desk, ostensibly reviewing the budget, but in reality planning his approach to Alice. While he would never again (never, never, never, he promised himself) go recruiting without speaking to her first, he wasn't about to give up on trying to get the Shadow King to join them.  
  
Just getting the youngest children off the street would be a victory. With Mr. Solomon's help they could start transitioning all of London's Underworld youth into society proper. In a couple of generations they might even be able to eliminate the criminal element entirely.

 

++

 

He had to admit, letting Ali set up the meeting with the Shadow King was much better than any of the schemes he had been hatching.

He wasn’t sure where he was at the moment, but he trusted his guide; or at least, trusted his guide’s respect for Ali’s wrath should anything happen to him. The red-headed young cutpurse kept Charles to his blind side, more concerned about protecting Charles than trying to keep him from memorizing their route. It was just as well, the likelihood of Charles being able to find his way back unassisted was slim at best.

Gavin stopped in front of a wooden warehouse door, knocking a complicated pattern; at the answering knock he pounded on the door, “Fekt! Let us in, Ric, you know it’s me!”

The door opened to dark glaring eyes, “That’s not the point, Gav. What if a copper had nabbed you and made you talk? Or worse, one of Stryker’s thugs?”

Gavin laughed, snatching Ric’s hat and ruffling his hair. “As if anyone could ever catch me.”

Charles cleared his throat as the boys started wrestling.

Ric scowled as he untangled himself, grabbing his hat back a marching into the depths of the warehouse.

Gavin shrugged. “We’d better not keep his Nibs waiting.”

 

++

 

Erik’s court had gathered around for the meeting; some remained standing while other’s lounged on boxes, one blue boy peaked down from the rafters, his long pointed tail twitching below him. Charles spared a moment to wonder how the lad had gotten up so high. Perhaps he had come in through the roof?

Erik stood at the center of a small clearing in the center of the warehouse. He tapped his walking stick twice on the ground, the metal tip ringing against the floor, and everyone fell silent before the echo faded. He and Charles had debated passionately for nearly an hour and it appeared Erik had made a decision.

“No.”

“But-“

“Enough. You’ve had your say. Your world is not ours, it will never be ours. I let you have your say because Alice called in a rather large marker. And now you’re done.”

“At least let them decide for themselves!” Charles shouted, gesturing to their audience, igniting a firestorm of whispers.

Erik studied each of his charges in turn, expecting nothing less than total loyalty. He frowned as he caught the expression on Mary’s face. She kept looking between Remus, Charles, and himself.

He smiled cruelly. “Ask me nicely.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What an excellent idea,” If he could expose Charles for the weak aristocrat he was, not one of his crew would dare leave the protection of the Shadow King, “I want to see you beg. Or did you not mean it when you said you would do anything for these children? I will. I have. You have no idea what I’ve done to protect them. If you really think they’ll just walk away for a few pretty words and the promise of a hot meal-”

Charles took off his hat as he lowered himself to one knee, “Please, Isaac; I beg of you. Let them choose, as your choices were taken from you, give this choice to them. Should they choose to return to you I will not keep them from leaving, but until then let my home be their home. If you cannot in good conscience join me, at least give them the option.”

Erik tightened his grip on his staff. Charles had surprised him, he had expected him to whine, or bluster; not this dignified display of respect.

When Alice first asked him to meet with her guardian he had expected a sniveling lordling; he should have known better. Alice had been the first to successfully defy his predecessor. He had thought she had conned Charles into being her benefactor, but he had misinterpreted he message; she hadn’t mockingly referred to Charles as her savior, she had meant it. He could see it in Charles eyes; he too, would do anything for these children.

“I’m going.” Mary had come up behind Charles, her arms crossed defensively; unwilling to meet Erik’s eyes.

Erik sighed, “I suppose you’ll be leaving to, Remus?”

The Frenchman shrugged. No one doubted for a moment that he would follow Mary.

“Very well, anyone wishing to leave has my blessing. And when you find I’m right I will welcome you home with open arms.”

Charles rose, joining Mary and Remus. As the three of them started to leave, he turned back to Erik, "The same offer will always be open to you, my friend."

 

+++

 

It made sense now. As he dove he was split in two, part of him wondering what the hell he was doing, most of him consumed by a need to get closer, to touch, to feel, to save his other self, his other half, to once again be whole.  
  
<You can't, you'll drown! You have to let go.>

 

+++ ****

**1416 CE- Northern Ireland  
**  
The room is hot and sweat pours off of Charles' body, soaking the rough sheets. He is so tired. So weak. He can't do this. It must be a boy, all his girls came so easily. Please. Please, let him give Liam a son.  
  
"Claire, lass, ye've got to bear down. Come on, mo chroí, one more good push," the midwife, Magda, pleaded as she brushing tears from Charles' eyes.  
  
He nodded as gathered the last of his reserves and when the contraction ripped through him he gave everything, and then the pain was gone.

There was a wail.  
  
"My son," he breathed, "give me my son."  
  
"Hush now, lass. You were right, and a bonny laird he'll be."  
  
The warm, squalling bundle was settled gently to his breast and he sighed in relief. His son.  
  
"I will love you forever."  
  
He was feeling warmer now, and the room was growing dim, but that was okay, they were together again, if only for a moment.  
  
"Always," barely a whisper.  
  
And again, with his last breath, "Always."

Erik continued to wail as the midwife murmured, "Poor dears."

 

+++

 

He tightened his hold, wrapping himself as close as possible around Erik.  
  
Erik. Not Schmidt’s Monster, created by so much pain, a process that consumed his childhood and left only rage. He is so much more; Charles has to make him see.  
  
<I know what this means to you, but you're going to die. Please. Erik. Calm your mind.>  
  
Erik fights Charles as the sub slips away and as they surface shouts, "Get off, me get off me, get off me!"  
  
"Well done, just breath. We're here."

"Who are you?"  
  
There's so much he wants to say to that, but they'll have time. He'll make time. "My name is Charles Xavier. "  
  
"Are you in my head? How did you do that?"  
  
"You have your tricks, I have mine. I am like you. Just calm your mind."

 Charles takes his own advice, regaining his breath and focusing on the here and now. They're both alive and neither is trying to kill the other for once. This time it will be different. This time all that has gone before has been laid out for him; they can learn from their past and shape a future where they are more than rivals at opposite sides of a blade, board, or battlefield.  
  
"I thought I was alone."

"You're not alone. Erik, you're not alone."

  
++++

**Author's Note:**

> I owe so very much to [pariahsdream](http://pariahsdream.livejournal.com/) for eir extraordinary art, eir endless encouragement, and eir last minute proof reading. Thank you FOREVER. You inspire me!


End file.
